Friday, February 20, 2015

I haven't blogged for a while and there's a reason for that: I'm in love! With my brand new grandson, Tom along with his brother Remi, a very gregarious and delightful three year old. I'm afraid I'm smitten and have been back and forth to London since the 8th January so much so my writing has suffered. But I will get back, very shortly back to the anchor of my laptop.

A delicious shiver shot through Angie as she thought back to earlier – Matt kissing the tip of her nose as he tried to wake her and then the way her eyes drifted sleepily open and locked with his, and then their mouths seeking out each others, and then kissing spongily, and then frenziedly like a couples of duelling daggers, and then...the inevitable.
Angie giggled, and tried to cross her fingers but they were all numb and clammy from the heavy pile of try-ons draped across both arms, and that she’d been carting about for the last half hour. Please God maybe just maybe this time they might have hit the jackpot. After all the temperature chart said she was bang on, and she had this feeling inside, a real gut feeling that this time she might, just migh—
‘Stop! For the love of God, stop!’
There was a pause, then a split second of confusion during which Angie let out a hideously girly scream, did a dithery pin-toed cha-cha, and then finally let go and slammed with wild abandonment into the well-padded contours of her mum’s arse.
‘Mum! Jesus Christ!’ she staggered about like a drunken fool, tripping over something squashy that had slid from her arms. ‘What the hell are you doing?!’
‘I can’t!’ wailed Bridie dragging a theatrical hand up to her quivering mouth.
‘Can’t what?’
‘Bear it!’
‘Bear what?’
‘This place, it’s horrible, it’s like Dante’s Inferno.’
By this place Bridie meant Oxford Street’s, multi-levelled Top Shop, bursting-at-the-seams-with-every-conceivable-item-of-outerwear-and-accessory, frenzied shoppers and grating music blaring from every orifice.
‘But you wanted to come here,’ said Angie, trying to remain calm as she bent down to pick up the spongy thing she’d nearly gone A over T over – in this instance a pair of bright red, elasticised slacks for the fuller figure (i.e. size 18 masquerading as 12).
‘I know, but I feel sick!’ The hysteria began to mount again. ‘I think I’m going to faint! Oh God, luv, you have to get me out of here!’
Get her out of here.
Angie gripped a handful of fabric until her knuckles turned white. Did she just say: get.her.out.of.here? Where the hell did she think she was on I’m a Celebrity. Jesus wept, this was unbelievable, un-bloody-believable. Less than ten seconds ago she’d been swanning up and down the aisles inspecting labels with her pretend glasses on as if she was bloody-bleeding-pissing Kate Middleton’s personal shopper.